


scream in the name (of a foreigner's god)

by rowenabane



Category: NCT (Band), WAYV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Choking, Enemies to Lovers, Gods, Human Sacrifice, Legends, M/M, but in a murder way not a sexy way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:02:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28902345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowenabane/pseuds/rowenabane
Summary: “I’m here to ask for your help,” Yangyang says. “And if you don’t help, I’ll—” his mind scrambles for something vaguely threatening to say. “I’ll kill you.”There is a long, painful silence, Yangyang’s heart threatening to leap out of his chest with every passing moment. Eventually, Kun throws his head back and laughs, the wind picking up around them. The sun is low and the shadows gather at Kun’s feet, curling into his robes.“Kill me?” Kun says, stepping towards him. “Killme?”
Relationships: Liu Yang Yang/Qian Kun
Comments: 13
Kudos: 127





	scream in the name (of a foreigner's god)

**Author's Note:**

> _Pray the gods do not misquote your covetous pulse for chaos, the black from which they were conceived. Even the eyes of gods must adjust to light. Even gods have gods._   
>  _-n.s_

Mountains do not love. This is the truth.

Yangyang repeats this to himself over and over, almost like a prayer. He had dispensed with real prayers a long time ago, when his brother went to sea. Half the village had been with him, almost a hundred men strong on a ship to fight a war that had long since ended. He did not come home. None of them did.

Two years. Yangyang is too tired for prayers, can only believe in action.

 _Mountains do not love,_ Yangyang repeats to himself as the village elders scrub his hair with scented oils and paint his skin with golden lines. He says nothing when they dress him in the ceremonial robes for the sacrifice ceremony, the light green silk loose around his shoulders and waist. He feels exposed, uneven.

He doesn’t protest, though. After all, he asked for it.

…

The elders say that there is nothing more sacred than sacrifice. They whisper it to him as they proceed up the stairs to the temple at the top of the mountain, the white stone cracked beneath his bare feet. Holy is the body that turns itself over to the god of the mountain. Revered is the name that gives it all away.

Yangyang doesn’t believe in all that. He’s sure there are more practical methods of devotion than locking oneself in a temple to die, but tradition remains.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Dejun asks, tripping on the stairs beside him. He’s a good friend, a sane and reasonable one, and his eyes are filled with worry. “No one has ever survived this. No one.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Yangyang replies, feet sore from the stone. The stairs stretch up into the distance. “Trust me.”

“You can’t talk to a god,” Dejun hisses, glancing behind them at the elders making their way up the stairs behind them. 

“I can try,” Yangyang says. He pulls the sash at his waist tighter, as if he can somehow tether his body to itself. “It can't be that bad, can it? It's just three days.”

“Three days without food or water, at the mercy of the elements and the gods,” Dejun whispers. “Please, Yangyang. Don’t do this."

Yangyang doesn’t look at him. He fixes his eyes on the mountain peak and keeps walking, always upward.

…

“We call out to you, God of the Mountain,” an elder pleads, eyes closed. “Accept this sacrifice as a symbol of our undying devotion to you. Let it nourish you as you have nourished us.”

Yangyang squares his shoulders back. The temple doors are solid stone, impossible to open from the inside. It takes three people on each side to slide the doors open, and even then they only open enough for him to slip through.

Yangyang looks over his shoulder at Dejun, who won’t even meet his eyes. No matter—he’ll see him again, and then they’ll both understand that this was necessary.

He enters the white stone temple, one foot in front of the other. The doors grind shut behind him, the sound of grating stone enough to set his nerves on edge. Silence follows, the stone so thick it blocks out everything else. He takes a deep breath, centering himself.

The temple is laid out like a circle around him, the walls towering high into the sky. There is no floor—grass brushes his ankles, emerald green. There is no ceiling, either. Instead, the walls rise to the sky and curve overhead, leaving a perfect circle over the center of the temple. Sunlight illuminates a stone dais in the middle of the grass, a white stone bench the only decoration.

Yangyang tries to avoid looking at the bench, suppressing the vivid image of him lying motionless with the god of the mountain eating his heart out of his chest. He shudders. Maybe he shouldn’t listen to Dejun so much—mountain gods don’t eat hearts. Right? Right.

He’s alone. Hopefully not for long.

“Where are you?” Yangyang calls out, sun setting above him. The wind ripples over the grass in waves as he steps onto the dais, peering through the hole in the ceiling. He feels something brush against his cheek but when he turns there is nothing there but the grass and stone.

The wind picks up, colder, more vicious. The shadows around the dais deepen with the setting sun and the hairs on the back of Yangyang’s neck rise. He gets the uncanny feeling of being watched, of eyes in the dark.

“Hello?”

A gust of wind at his back. He turns and sees a man with dark hair standing there, eyes as gray as the sky before a storm. His robes are black and gray, like rock and shadows, gold lines running over his hands and neck. A gold line glimmers down the center of his bottom lip. The man’s mouth tilts up at the corners and that gold line catches the dying sunlight like a flame.

Yangyang takes a hesitant step backward. The man’s eyes are piercing in a way that he has never seen—they seem to look right through him, make him feel tiny and exposed. 

“They’ve bought me a pretty one,” he says lazily, looking Yangyang up and down. “No one has come to this temple in three years.”

Yangyang bristles at the man’s dismissive tone. He doesn’t need to ask, but he does so anyway.

“Who are you?” he asks, loudly and boldly, raising his voice to the confidence of kings.

The man tilts his head. “You don’t know?”

He swallows. “I would like to make sure.”

“Kun,” the man says, and the grass and wind go still at the sound of his name. The rock itself heaves in reverence. “God of this mountain.”

Yangyang takes another small step back, off the dais. “Very nice to meet you,” he says weakly. 

Kun raises an eyebrow, stone gray eyes cutting through him like a knife. “You don’t kneel,” he observes. 

“I’m here to ask for your help,” Yangyang says. “And if you don’t help, I’ll—” his mind scrambles for something vaguely threatening to say. “I’ll kill you.”

There is a long, painful silence, Yangyang’s heart threatening to leap out of his chest with every passing moment. Eventually, Kun throws his head back and laughs, the wind picking up around them. The sun is low and the shadows gather at Kun’s feet, curling into his robes.

“Kill me?” Kun says, stepping towards him. “Kill _me?_ ”

“I can do it,” Yangyang says, stepping back again.

“Weak, foolish little mortal,” Kun says, the words dripping with malice. “You think yourself a god killer? What will you do? Hit me with stones?”

“If I have to!” Yangyang raises his fists.

“Unbelievable,” Kun says, seething. “Three years of nothing and they send me _you_.”

“The reason they haven’t sent anyone up here to _needlessly die_ is because half the village is missing at sea,” Yangyang spits back. “I guess you weren’t aware.”

Kun stares at him, only a step away. From this close Yangyang can see Kun’s hair has small, gray streaks, like the lines through dark marble. His gray eyes are _livid_.

“What you are supposed to do, _little mortal_ is kneel and _pray_ I don’t decide to kill you slowly.”

Yangyang shakes. “You don’t frighten me,” he lies.

“You are a fool.”

“And you’re a poor excuse for a god.”

It’s not a wise thing to say. Something in Kun’s demeanor flips and suddenly he seems bigger, as if he is pulling the very fabric of reality inward. His eyes go dark, almost black. The grass quivers at his feet, the shadows tucking themselves out of sight. He is very, very still. Like rock. Cold.

“What do you seek from me?” Kun asks, the lethal edge in his quiet voice slicing right through Yangyang’s spine. He speaks quietly, but it sounds as if he is mere moments away from obliterating him like a speck of dust.

“Why don’t you help your people?” Yangyang presses on, knees weak. “Almost every man in the village is missing. Families have been split apart and people are starving, but you haven’t done a _single thing_ to help them.”

“All these unspeakable miseries are caused by your people,” Kun says blankly. “Your greed and wrath breed famine and war. Your weakness leads to pain.”

“I put food on your altar even when I had nothing to eat!” Yangyang yells, frustration giving him resolve. “I prayed and prayed and heard nothing!” He balls his hands into fists, standing. His knees are dirty, covered in grass and soil. “What kind of god doesn’t protect those who worship him? You sit here and do nothing while _my people_ die crying out for you.”

Yangyang points an accusatory finger in Kun’s direction as if he can somehow transmit his hatred in the air between them like a lightning bolt. “You’re—you’re nothing but a _coward—_ ”

Kun raises a hand and all the air rushes out of Yangyang’s lungs as if a great hand is squeezing his chest. He gasps, stumbling back.

“Choose your next words carefully, little mortal.” Kun’s face is blank, almost bored, the symbols on his hands glimmering in the dying light.

“You have no real power,” Yangyang wheezes. “You’re lazy. You don’t deserve to be worshipped.”

Silence, as solid as the rocks. Kun stands and the shadows curl around him like lovers, clinging to his chest as if they cannot bear to be parted from him. He reaches out and takes Yangyang’s chin in his hand, narrowing his eyes. The colors shift in the moonlight—stone gray, midnight black, forest green.

“No power?” Kun asks softly, fingers digging into Yangyang’s jaw. He gasps, pulling back in shock, but Kun holds him in place. His eyes are as demanding as the rock, grip strong enough to crush bone. “You are quite bold, little mortal.”

Yangyang bares his teeth but fear races through him like a wildfire, setting every nerve in his body into panicked disarray. Something in him cowers at those gray eyes, a primal part of him that recognizes predators before the rest of him can. Kun leans in close, eyes burning into his own with an intensity matched only by stars. 

“I was here when this mountain was formed by the heaving of the world,” Kun says, cold breath ghosting over Yangyang’s lips. “I raised this mountain to the sky with my own hands, rooted it deep into the heart of the world with my footsteps. Everything that lives and breathes and dies on this mountain belongs to _me_.”

“Not everything,” Yangyang grits out. Kun sneers. 

“I could tear your heart out of your chest, still beating.” Kun tilts Yangyang’s head to the side, exposing the soft skin of his throat. “I could open every vein in your body and drain it into the soil. You belong to me, little mortal.”

“Don’t call me that,” Yangyang spits, jerking away. Kun lets him go, mouth quirking up into an amused smile.

“What would you rather I call you?” Kun asks. Yangyang falls to his knees through no weakness of his own—he feels the sudden weight of rocks on his back, driving him to the ground. Kun gives him a sympathetic, pitying look. “Yangyang, youngest son? Not a warrior like his brother, but tasked with carrying the dead weight of a family fading into obscurity? Yangyang, who comes to my temple dressed in _my_ robes, painted with _my_ symbols, but who still asserts that he is not mine?”

“I belong to no one,” Yangyang says, struggling to push himself upwards. “Much less a crooked mountain god.”

Kun stares at him, fingers flexing. “You’re going to make me angry, Yangyang.” The weight vanishes from his back. “You have a reckless mouth.”

“I hate you,” Yangyang spits. “I hate you and this mountain, I hate—”

The words die abruptly in his throat and he finds himself choking on them, struggling to breathe. He falls to his knees clutching at his throat, all the air in the world abandoning him. It feels like there’s something in his throat, as if he’s trying to swallow around something as solid as a stone. He claws at his skin, nails digging into his neck, struggling to gasp or cry or scream.

“Why don’t you do what you mortals are supposed to do,” Kun says, grabbing his hair and yanking his head back. “And die?”

His lungs scream for air, plead for it, every cell in his body urging him to curl up on the grass and heave until he can breathe, breathe, _breathe_. His hands close around Kun’s wrist, trying to pull away.

Kun gives him a small, terrible smile. “You don’t give up, do you?”

He lets go of his hair and Yangyang collapses into himself, digging his hands into the dirt, coughing until air trickles into his lungs. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he continues to cough, choking on the thick taste of decay. His chest heaves and dark soil tumbles over his lips, gathering in a small pile between his hands. The grainy texture of dirt works its way between his teeth and he spits, wiping at his mouth only for his hand to come away muddy. The earth in his mouth tastes like minerals gone wrong, like the dying roots of great, ancient trees.

“Even if you leave this mountain you’ll still belong to me.” Kun sits on the bench, crossing one leg over the other. “Fight as much as you want, Yangyang. I’ll have you eventually.”

Yangyang stares at the dark soil in front of him, wet with saliva. He grabs a handful and flings it at Kun, only for the clump of dirt to freeze in midair and fall harmlessly at Kun’s feet.

“If all my people are dead there won’t be anyone to worship you,” he says, standing. His knees shake, chest still heaving, tongue still considering the taste of burial soil. “No more burnt offerings. No more virgins sent up the mountain to die.”

Kun raises an eyebrow. “Mortals come and go,” he says lazily. “I can wait.”

Yangyang clenches his teeth together, hands balled into fists. He’s well aware that he seems more like a petulant child than a warrior, than anyone with sway and power.

“You won’t enjoy it,” Yangyang says, hands shaking, “You’ll be all alone.”

“I was alone at the beginning of the world,” Kun says. “The mountain still stands, does it not?”

The moon gleams above them, as perfect and round as a coin. Yangyang blinks, and Kun is gone.

…

It’s safe to say that Yangyang’s plan, if it could even be called that, isn’t going to work. He mutters angrily at himself and sits against the wall of the temple, cold. Even though the summer nights are usually warm enough to tolerate, the air is cold and thin higher on the mountain. He shivers through his thin silk robe, rubbing at his arms.

“Stupid god,” he hisses. He looks up at the hole in the temple’s ceiling. Calculating. Even if he could make it up the walls of the temple, it would be impossible to reach that opening—unless, of course, he gains the magical ability to crawl upside down like an insect.

He isn’t pleased with a lot of things, but at least the moon is bright. It’s calming to be able to sit in the light and not the shadows.

Yangyang picks up a loose rock with a sharp edge and digs it into the stone wall of the temple. He gouges a deep line into the stone and then another, aimless. He’s been sitting here for hours.

He’s halfway through a third line when the rock rises from his hands, slipping between his fingers to hover in front of him. He grabs at it but it flies through the air behind him.

“It's rude to deface a temple,” Kun says, the stone hovering over his palm. 

“It's rude to _leave_ when someone is talking to you.” Yangyang crosses his arms. “What do you want?”

“Like I said, it's rude to deface a temple.”

“Too bad,” Yangyang says, searching the grass for another rock. “If it bothers you so much, stop me.”

There’s a small crack and Yangyang ducks. When he looks up he finds that his rock has embedded itself in the wall mere inches above his head. He turns and sees Kun staring at him with blank eyes, hand raised. A golden eye is drawn on his palm, glimmering in the moonlight.

“If you don’t watch your mouth,” Kun says calmly, “the next one will end up in your ribs.”

“Why don’t you just kill me already?” Yangyang huffs, trying to pry the stone out of the wall. “Eat my heart or whatever it is you do with your sacrifices.”

“Do you want me to eat your heart?”

Yangyang shudders. “Absolutely not.”

Kun shrugs, sitting on the bench. “Then I can’t. The fun thing about sacrifices, little mortal, is that they have to be _willing_.”

Yangyang turns. “Does that mean you can’t kill me?”

“Of course I can kill you,” he says. “But not here. In this temple I can’t take something not given to me.”

“And what do people usually give you?”

“Their hearts,” Kun says lazily. “Their bodies. Their souls.”

The rock finally pops out of the wall and into Yangyang’s hand. “Sorry, but I’m not interested.”

“You’re a troublesome little creature.”

“If you want me to surrender my heart or soul or whatever, you’re going to have to make a more compelling argument. I want you to bring my brother back.”

He can practically hear Kun gritting his teeth. “That’s not how this works. You can’t come here and make demands.”

Yangyang shrugs, continuing to carve lines into the wall. “I just did.”

Silence, eerie and unsettling. Yangyang looks over his shoulder and Kun narrows his eyes at him. He tilts his head and smiles slightly, as if he has figured something out.

“You like games, don’t you?” Kun asks, stepping forward. “Challenges?”

Yangyang feels something in him go very still. 

“If you survive three days and three nights in this temple, I’ll bring your brother back.” Kun’s gray eyes gleam. “I’ll assist you in whatever way your little heart desires.”

It's a tempting offer, almost irresistible. Yangyang stands, wiping dirt off his knees. “You’re trying to trick me, aren’t you?”

“Why would I need to trick you?” Kun smiles.

“If I agree, you have to play fair,” Yangyang says. “No dropping rocks on my head.”

“I don’t have to cheat to win.” The night shadows at Kun’s feet go flat against the grass. “You have no food, no water. It would be impressive if you managed to last for three days.”

“I can do it,” he says, something in his chest clenching and unclenching like a fist. It’s an obstacle but nothing he wasn’t prepared for. Nothing he can’t survive.

Kun raises an eyebrow. “Can you?”

The wind picks up at Yangyang’s feet, rushing over his exposed skin. He shivers. 

“Yes,” he whispers. “I can.”

Kun extends his hand and Yangyang takes it, surprised at how warm his skin is. He had expected something as hard and cold as stone, colder even. The eye on his hand glows as if they’ve caught a tiny piece of starlight between their palms.

“Good luck,” Kun says. He grins, and then he’s gone.

…

Yangyang falls asleep before the sun rises, and when he wakes the sun is already high in the sky. He squints up at the clouds and holds a hand up to the sunlight, watching his shadow draw itself straight upon the ground. Almost noon.

He looks around the temple—there isn’t much to look at. He picks up a stone and turns it over in his hands, thinking.

Food. Water. A weapon, if possible. He could eat the grass, but he imagines that would do him more harm than good in the long run. The blades are long and thin but strong, and if he pulls enough free from the soil he could make himself a rope, or a slingshot.

Hunger is beginning to gnaw at him, small but present right in the pit of his stomach. He needs food.

A flock of birds crosses over the mouth of the temple, small black bodies leaving stark shadows on the grass. He watches them, pulling a small, heavy stone out of the soil. He hefts it into his fist and squints at the birds, spiraling higher into the sky.

Yangyang rears his arm back and, with all the strength he can muster, hurls the rock towards the birds. He hears a series of angry _caws_ but none of the birds break formation, instead flying out of view. He curses and picks up another rock, adjusting his aim. He takes a step to the right and throws, but this time the stone falls short. It drops onto the roof of the ceiling and into obscurity.

Once more. The birds coil in unfamiliar patterns, and this time Yangyang curls his hand around his stone and murmurs a small prayer, more intent than words. He aims right at the middle of the shifting mass and swings his arm back, the rock warm beneath his fingers. He throws it.

The stone rises, higher and higher, but before it can hit anything something flies over the temple, blocking out all the light. The rock hits something solid and bounces back into the grass, useless.

Yangyang runs forward, peering up at the figure casting such a large shadow over the ground. The figure moves and rears upward, spreading its massive wings. It's an eagle with brown feathers, massive against the sky. One yellow eye peers down at him as the eagle settles on the mouth of the temple, black-tipped talons scratching the stone.

Yangyang holds his breath as the eagle watches him, tilting its head.

“You should not kill birds with stones.”

He jolts back at the sound of the voice. “What?”

“You should not kill birds with stones,” the eagle says. It opens and closes its beak. “To kill a flying creature is to ruin its purpose. It is cruel.”

Guilt warms his skin and he looks away from the eagle’s piercing eyes. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, slightly confused. “I didn’t mean to be cruel.”

The eagle flaps its wings. “Then what did you mean to be?”

Hunger blurs the edges of his thoughts. “I’m hungry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It is no shame to feel hunger,” the eagle interrupts. “Can you not leave?”

“No,” Yangyang says, the strangeness of the situation finally dawning on him. He’s talking to an eagle. A bird so large it could claw him to bits. “I made a deal with the mountain god to stay here and survive for three days and three nights.”

“It is a wicked bargain,” the eagle says solemnly. “Does he not know you are frail, only mortal?”

The wind ruffles Yangyang’s hair. “He knows.”

“A brave warrior, despite the odds.” The eagle preens its brown feathers. “Maybe I can help you. Do you have anything to offer me?”

Yangyang holds out his empty hands. He stares at them for a moment before pulling at the sash around his waist. The silk pools in his hands, the green as pale as a seed. 

“I have this,” he says, the fabric fluttering in his open palms. “Would this do?”

The eagle squawks and dives into the temple, plucking the sash from his hands. He can feel the air from beneath its wings as they brush past his face, the brown almost gold in the sunlight. It takes off into the sky quickly vanishing among the clouds.

“Wait!” Yangyang yells, holding his robe shut. Without the sash it is held together with the thinnest of ties, fluttering in the wind around his knees. “Wait!”

The eagle is gone. He huffs and sits on the grass.

“Great,” he grumbles, pulling at the grass. “Wonderful.”

An hour passes, maybe two. He lies on the ground for a little, staring at the temple wall, feeling the wind rush over him like a stone. Hunger pools in his stomach, clawing up his throat, taking all his strength. The grass brushes his face, almost loving.

The wind begins to blow, hard, and he hears the powerful flap of wings. He’s on his feet before he even notices, watching the eagle alight on the temple ceiling. It is holding a large branch in its beak, laden with blue-black berries. He reaches out and the eagle drops the branch into his hands.

“Thank you,” Yangyang murmurs. For a moment he feels tears well up in his chest, pressing behind his eyes. 

The eagle dips its head. “Silk makes a strong nest, human. Eat well.”

The eagle takes off, and Yangyang offers a small prayer to the space it left behind, pulling one of the berries off the branch. The plump flesh gives a little beneath his fingers, and when he bites into it sweetness coats his tongue.

He eats some of the berries and saves the rest for later, hiding the branch behind a large stone settled against the temple wall. The sky is golden, as if it knows to be beautiful one last time before the day ends.

He yawns, blinking back drowsiness with heavy eyelids. He lies on the grass, ground soft beneath his head, and realizes that sleep is an excellent idea.

…

Something startles him awake—a strange dream full of tumbling stones, falling over each other and out of his mouth. He wakes with a chill, skin damp with sweat, a pair of startling eyes gazing down at him.

Yangyang nearly jumps out of his body. Kun looks mildly amused as he yelps and scrambles backward.

“Have you no shame?” Yangyang says, standing. One of the ties holding his robe closed has torn against the ground, and the fabric dips dangerously low on his chest. He holds it closed with one hand, the other pointing at Kun. “It's _rude_ to watch people while they sleep.”

“It's more rude to promise someone a gift then not give it,” Kun says simply. He walks over to the bench, sitting. “Which of us has broken from manners more?”

“Can you at least look away?” Yangyang hisses, holding his robe shut. “I would appreciate some _privacy,_ thank you.”

Kun waves his hand dismissively. The grass at Yangyang’s feet coils around his ankles and slides up to his waist, weaving itself into a sash. He stares in openmouthed shock at the god on the bench, unsure whether to thank him. 

“You mortals and your modesty,” Kun says. He pats the bench. “Come sit by me.”

Yangyang slowly makes his way to the bench and sits, angling his body away from Kun’s still form. The mountain god doesn’t look at him, his eyes fixed on the sky.

“The stars are old,” Kun says. “Older than anything. Look, Yangyang, how slowly they glimmer. They are sleeping.”

Yangyang looks up at the stars. The twinkle against the ink dark night, holes punched in a cloth. Sleeping.

Yangyang tears his gaze away from the mesmerizing runs of the stars and finds Kun staring at him, one hand outstretched. 

“You are lovely,” Kun says softly, fingers brushing his cheek. “Truly.”

Desire cuts through him like the sharp edge of a knife, so sudden and powerful he can hardly see straight. His chest twists with the feeling and his skin burns hot enough to melt iron into vapor. In this moment he wants nothing more than for Kun to touch him, opens his mouth to ask.

A small voice in the back of Yangyang’s head murmurs to him, as sharp as the hiss of a snake. _Give it to him,_ the voice says, slithering beneath his mind. _Give yourself away._

The fog clears as if it had never existed.

Yangyang jerks away, standing. “You’re trying to trick me,” he says, breathless with anger. “You said you’d play fair.”

“Is it not fair to ask for my due?” Kun’s words sting but he respects the space Yangyang has put between them, does not stand or come closer. “It does not hurt to try.”

“The agreement is I survive three days and you help me,” Yangyang hisses. “I shouldn’t have to tiptoe through your endless trickeries.”

Kun doesn't smile. “You’ll turn yourself over to me eventually.”

“I won’t give you anything,” Yangyang says, falling onto the grass. The ground has a welcoming solidarity, never moving away. Kun gives him a strange look, almost pitying.

“It was worth a try,” he says, standing. “See you tomorrow, Yangyang.”

Yangyang blinks and the mountain god is gone, the memory of desire still burning through him like one of the sleeping stars. He sits there for the longest time, one hand pressed to his chest, the other tangled in the grass.

…

The second day goes by quickly. He eats a handful of berries and then begins working—he pulls long blades of grass from the ground, weaving them into a small pouch. It's mindless work, taking great amounts of time but little thought.

As he pulls the threads together he thanks the grass for its life and love. The small pouch rests in his hand, and he plucks the rest of the berries off the branch the eagle gave him to drop them inside. They’ll be easier to hide this way, less likely to get crushed.

He searches the high grass for a sharp stone and carves away at the end of the branch, whittling the end into a sharp point. It's not enough to kill a god, but it's enough to clutch in his sleep.

The work takes all of the day, and by the time he finishes the sky is going gold at the edges. He wipes sweat from his forehead, the ritual paint streaking over his skin. He wipes some of it off onto his robe, the gold shimmering on the silk. His mouth is unfathomably dry, every swallow like a cutting stone.

He sits in front of the dais, sharpened stick in one hand, and goes to sleep.

…

Yangyang wakes to see Kun sitting on the bench, the god watching him with dark eyes. He sits up and rubs at his face.

“You sleep light,” Kun remarks. His smile is soft, fond.

“You walk quietly.”

Kun shrugs and Yangyang steps onto the dais, sitting next to Kun on the bench. He looks up at the stars, bright enough to blind. Kun follows his gaze, black eyes shifting.

“The sky sees and knows all trespasses but yet says nothing,” Kun says. He looks at Yangyang, his eyes grass green. “And yet you do not condemn the sky for failing to answer prayers.”

A quiet understanding fills Yangyang like water. The sharpened stick lies in the grass. “The sky isn’t the mountain. It doesn’t protect us, feed us, carry our graves.”

“Do you make such distinctions between gods?” Kun asks, opening his hand. A flat stone rests on his palm, right in the center of the golden eye inked into his skin. “You can pray to anyone.”

He doesn’t move. “You had my people build this temple. You sent them dreams and visions. You are the only god that means _anything_ to these people. You are the only being that can help us.”

“Why can’t you help yourselves?”

“We do,” Yangyang says, holding in his dormant anger, the sharp sting of frustration. “ _You_ never help anyone.”

Kun rolls the stone over his knuckles, thoughtful. “Ask me a question, Yangyang. Anything.”

The night is cold and Yangyang shivers through his thin silk robe. “What?”

“Is there anything you would like to know?” Kun says, holding the stone in his hand. “A burning question? The secrets of life and death? The beginning and end of the world?”

Yangyang stares at him. “Is this some kind of a trick?”

The stone hovers over Kun’s hand, glowing like a star. “Humor me, mortal.”

For once, Yangyang doesn’t have anything to say. He doesn't care for life and death, the intricacies of forming rock. The beginning of the world and end of the world are too far away to matter to him, anyway.

“In the village we tell the children that you sleep during the winter,” Yangyang says, suddenly nervous. “Is it true?”

Kun laughs. “ _That's_ your question? The verification of a bedtime story?”

“Humor me,” Yangyang says.

The stone shoots out of Kun’s hand and into the night sky, so high and so fast it almost looks like a shooting star. Shadows crawl at Kun’s feet, endlessly begging not to be trampled underfoot.

“Winter is heavy,” Kun says. “I rest.”

“You sleep?” Yangyang asks incredulously. 

“The mountain slows in the winter months,” Kun says. “The creatures sleep. I rest until the mountain has the energy to live and breathe again.”

“You must get very cold, then.”

Kun gives him a strange, calculating look, as if he is trying to dissect his words. “Rock is not warm by nature.”

The wind sends a chill down Yangyang’s spine.

“Let me ask you a question,” Kun says. “What would you do to save your brother?”

The answer is easy.

“Anything,” he breathes through dry lips. “Anything at all.”

“You love him that much?” 

“He’s family,” Yangyang says. “Of course I do.”

Kun’s eyes are as dark as the entire sky, gaping almost, so sad his irises seem to drip. Kun blinks slowly, standing.

“Go back to sleep, little mortal,” Kun says softly. “You only have one day left.”

His voice is sad, exhausted. Yangyang looks over and finds him long gone, his spot on the bench empty and cold.

…

One more day. One more night. It should be simple.

But nothing ever is. Yangyang wakes up in pain so intense he rolls over, gasping, into the grass. He squeezes his eyes shut as if to cry, but nothing comes. He was thirsty yesterday but this is something different, something painful and new.

 _Water,_ his body cries. _Water._

He fumbles with the small pouch hidden in the grass and bites into a berry, licking at the thin trail of black juice that slips down his wrist. It's not enough.

 _How long can a body survive without water?_ He thinks numbly. _How long?_

“Please,” Yangyang rasps, a prayer of one word and one alone. “Please.”

He lies on the grass and watches the clouds swirl, hypnotized. He’s not sure how long he’s been there, motionless, when the clouds begin to gather together. They pile into each other and into the strange shape of a great face.

He blinks. Maybe he’s dreaming. Maybe he’s so close to death that even the sky pities him.

“Please,” he murmurs. “Help me.”

The swirling clouds frown at him with vast white brows. “Why are you here, little one?”

“To plead with the god of the mountain.” Yangyang stares up at the bright blue sky, throat so dry every word shears on the inside. His lips are chapped. “I won’t leave until he agrees to help me.”

“Or if you die,” the clouds say, their voice soft and high. It is a voice that reminds him of a calm, quiet breeze. 

“What do they call you?” Yangyang asks, curiosity winning over pain. The clouds smile softly, great empty eyes creasing at the edges. 

“It is not important,” they say. “But I have been known to be kinder than my brother. Be careful, little one. Kun rarely yields.”

Yangyang bows his head. The sky, at least, speaks sympathetically. He looks up and watches the clouds darken from white to a light, ashy gray.

The first raindrop lands on his cheek, just below his eye. The sun still shines but the rain begins to gently pour, clear and crisp and cool. He sits up and cups his hands. He drinks, laughter bubbling out of him, joy springing up like a well. 

“Thank you!” he calls out to the sky, voice carrying out of the temple. Rain soaks his clothes and his hair, washes the paint on his skin off in flakes. “Thank you!”

The sky does not answer, but the sun shines through the rain in a way that can only be described as holy.

…

“You are still alive,” Kun says that evening as the sun is setting in the distance. Yangyang cannot tell if he sounds disappointed—his voice has a strange stony quality, like a crumbling brick wall. Composed in the middle but tapering off at the edges.

“I am,” Yangyang says. His robes are still damp from the brief rainshower but he feels alive, rejuvenated in a way not entirely natural. He rises from where he was crouching on the grass, running his hands through his drying hair. It's messy, curling in the warm air.

“You’ve held out longer than most,” Kun says, tilting his head. “That's impressive.”

“You said if I survived for three days and three nights you would help me,” Yangyang says. He feels stronger in a way he wasn’t before—bolder. More sure. He doesn’t hesitate when he walks up to Kun, staring right into those rocky gray eyes without flinching. “I intend to survive.”

“You have one night left, Yangyang.” Kun smiles, eyes glimmering. “You are not done yet."

Yangyang squares his shoulders back. "I'm not afraid of you."

The night falls like a curtain above them, sky fading to black in wide brushstrokes. Yangyang can hear the night slowly come to life like a song. Wind. Buzzing insects.

"Does that make you brave?" Kun asks, eyes dragging over him. "Or does it make you foolish?"

"Neither. It makes me determined."

Kun raises an eyebrow, amused by his answer. His eyes flash green and he circles Yangyang, hands clasped behind his back. Yangyang doesn’t look away. 

Kun stops. Stares.

“I cannot bring them back,” Kun finally says. He looks away, lowered eyes almost an admission of guilt. “It is outside my realm of influence.”

“Do you know where they are?” Yangyang asks, leaning forward. “Are they okay?”

Kun waves his hand. “They are safe, but trapped.” Kun takes a slow, deep breath. “There is an island in the middle of the sea that collects travelers. It is a dangerous place to end up in—the witch of the island does not like to let his prizes go.”

Yangyang watches the new moonlight play over the golden lines on Kun’s skin. The god almost, _almost_ looks concerned. He clasps his hands together, thumb rubbing at the golden eye on his hand.

“Few people ever come back from that island,” Kun says. “It is protected by strong magic. Gods like me cannot intervene.”

“I’ll go,” Yangyang says hastily. “Tell me where it is and I’ll go.”

Kun gives him a small, sad smile. “It is dangerous, little mortal. Have you no self preservation?”

Yangyang falls to his knees, holding his hands out to Kun as offerings, the only thing he has to offer. “I would do it,” he says, pleading. “Please. Send me.”

Kun stands and places a hand on Yangyang’s shoulder, touch gentle. Yangyang looks up at him and the world seems to tilt sideways, the mountain becoming unsteady beneath the both of them. The stars twinkle like holes in the black velvet sky.

“A champion,” Kun whispers. “I have not had one of those in a very, very long time.”

Yangyang takes his hand. “I can bring them back. _Help me._ ”

The wind picks up around them, the grass swaying in circles. The shadows that follow Kun like dogs swell beneath his feet, wrapping around his ankles. They crawl up his arm and over his hand.

“Rest,” Kun murmurs, the darkness flickering over Yangyang’s wrist. “You do not always have to rush into danger.”

Yangyang opens his mouth to protest but a sudden exhaustion overtakes him, as if every muscle in his body has turned to liquid and air. He feels warm all over, drowsy, his eyelids dropping like stones. He lies down on the grass. It is unbelievably soft.

Kun kneels beside him, a fond expression painting his face like a shadow. “Goodnight, Yangyang.”

_Goodnight._

…

Yangyang dreams about the mountain. How could he not?

He dreams of the mountain as rock, heavy and imposing. He dreams of being trapped in a small dark cave with nothing to light the walls except a star, stolen from the sky. He dreams of a neverending damp, as if the stone has not yet learned how to separate itself from the sea. He feels cold all over, skin hard and icy, uncomfortable. He feels exhausted, muscles sore from work and toil.

He dreams of the mountain as a man, powerful and strange. He dreams of a man wreathed in shadows with eyes so gray they rival the rock. He dreams of a man in robes that are green in one light and black in another, covered from head to toe in gold symbols that cut through the dark. He imagines this man tastes like dirt, is as hard and unyielding as stone. The man’s hands are surprisingly warm. His voice is surprisingly gentle.

Yangyang dreams of an island surrounded by crystal blue water. The way to the island is suddenly clear to him, the path he must cut through the sea to find it.

 _Yangyang,_ someone whispers. _Be careful, my champion._

Water. Endless water, living and breathing and blue.

_My champion._

Yangyang jolts awake, skin damp with sweat. The grass has woven itself around his shoulders like a blanket, but as he sits up it unravels and slips away. The sun is beginning to rise in the east and all the light in the temple is a soft, rosy gold.

Yangyang blinks. Kun is standing on the dais with his hands clasped together, watching the sun rise. 

“You’ve survived three days and three nights,” Kun says quietly as Yangyang comes to stand beside him. “An impressive feat.”

“I know the way,” Yangyang says. “You showed me.”

Kun looks at the ground, the shadows around him leaching into the surrounding shadows not yet obliterated by the sun. His stone gray eyes are tinted orange and yellow in the light. On fire.

“It is a dangerous journey,” Kun says, stepping off the dais and onto the grass. Yangyang follows, blinking against the brightness of the sunrise. It's almost blinding, this light, this hazardous dawn. Kun’s face is as blank as the flat stone face of the peaks, but his eyes twinkle with golden lights, like gems in the gray. “You will need assistance.”

Yangyang stares, wordless. His heartbeat seems to have stilled into nothingness, the air holding him still.

Kun waves a hand and the blades of grass at Yangyang’s feet twine together into ropes, sliding up his arms and legs like snakes. He holds still as they wrap around his wrists and throat, forming delicate looping patterns across every inch of exposed skin. As Yangyang watches the grass sinks into his skin, patterns turning as gold as the sunrise. They almost exactly match the fading ritual paint, except when he rubs at the design it stretches and moves with his skin. 

He holds up a hand. On his palm is the symbol of an eye covered by a jagged line. Kun holds up his own hand to reveal the same pattern.

“The language of the mountain,” Kun says, wind picking up at his feet. “To shield you and give you wisdom.”

Kun raises his hands up to the sky and the ground beneath his feet rumbles as if it wants to split apart, soil vibrating with small stones. Yangyang steps back and the dirt separates, more stones coming to the surface. Not rocks, though—the stones shimmer in the right light, glimmering as they move. 

Yangyang watches the stones rise into Kun’s hand, assembling themselves into something vaguely the length and shape of a sword. The dirt shakes loose to reveal a long blade, shimmering in the light. It rests on Kun’s open palms, a patchwork of gold and iron, translucent gemstones, specks of precious metals. Obsidian streaks through the center of the blade, creating a jagged line of black that dips into the hilt. The blade is so sharp that the edges seem fuzzy.

Kun places the fully formed sword into Yangyang’s hands. It is the perfect size and weight, heavy in his hands.

“The treasures of the mountain,” Kun says. “To protect you from those who wish you harm.”

Kun takes a step back as Yangyang swings the sword experimentally, the blade whistling through the air.

“Thank you, Yangyang breathes, shocked into silence. “Thank you.”

Kun smiles and steps closer, gray eyes swirling into green. He places his hands on Yanyang’s thin shoulders and leans in close until their lips brush. “The heart of the mountain,” he murmurs. “To always lead you home.”

Yangyang lets out a muffled sound of surprise as Kun kisses him, mouth slotting against his like it was meant to be there. For a brief moment Yangyang expects the taste of metal, of earth, of decaying soil. Instead he finds that Kun’s kiss tastes like the beginning of spring, reminds him of all the flowers that bloom on the mountain, all the glorious things that grow. Kun’s kiss tastes like greenery, lush and glorious. Kun’s kiss tastes like the setting sun, warmth and glow.

Kun breaks away. “Open your mouth,” he says softly. Yangyang obeys and Kun opens his hand to reveal a small, red berry, as glossy as a cut ruby. He places two fingers in Yangyang’s mouth, forcing his tongue flat against the bottom of his mouth. He places the berry in his mouth, as small and cold as a stone, and eases Yangyang’s mouth shut with spit slick fingers.

“Swallow,” Kun murmurs, voice low. Yangyang does and he tastes cherries and mint, smells the rare jasmine that grows on the mountaintop.

He steps back and Yangyang almost steps forward just to close the space. He can feel a tug in his chest, like a thread wrapped around his heart that pulls him in one direction and one direction alone.

_Home._

“The next time you come to this temple,” Kun says, reaching out to brush Yangyang’s cheek. “You complete your sacrifice. You willingly give yourself to me.”

Yangyang nods, all the words in the world suddenly clumsy and unsuitable. Kun’s hand is warm against his skin, thumb sweeping over his bottom lip.

“Sail fast,” Kun says, hand dropping. He folds his hands together in front of him and the temple doors crack down the middle, falling flat onto the grass with a sound like one sharp peal of thunder. Freedom reaches out to him with one outstretched hand.

Yangyang turns away from the ancient mountain god, from Kun, and runs down the stairs. He resists the urge to look back.

…

“You’re alive!” Dejun yells when he sees him enter the village. “You’re—”

He freezes, eyes widening. “What happened?” he asks, eyes skimming over Yangyang’s sword, the gold markings on his skin. His ceremonial robes are torn and dirty and he can only imagine what he looks like—wild from three days on the mountain, carrying a sword defying logic. He can hear people behind him whispering, saying _chosen, champion, defyer of gods._

No sacrifice has ever come back from that temple. None had ever survived.

“I need a boat,” Yangyang says, standing in the town square. His heart keeps trying to tug him backwards, up the uneven stone stairs. “I’m going to find my brother.”

…

After 11 months a ship rolls into the harbor, white sail casting a gray shadow over the glistening sea. Kun watches from the mouth of the empty temple with his hands folded in front of him, staring directly into the glare of the sun over the water.

Summer has come and gone, autumn already fading into memory. The winter was cold and hard and long but now spring rises from the earth, fighting its way through the rock. Kun had slept. He had waited.

Mountains do not take risks. They do not move like the tides of the sea, they do not flit from fancy to fancy like the sky. Mountains protect what they have. They need little else.

Kun watches the ship dock. He can feel every footstep that touches the soil, recognizes them all. He sees a crowd gather, crying with joy.

Mountains do not want. They stand tall and do not shift.

That night Kun watches the village blaze with fires and laughter, food and music. It is a homecoming celebration of something once thought lost. He knows a familiar body weaves its way through the crowds. He knows its eventual destination.

Mountains wait.

...

A day passes. Another. A lone figure makes its way up the mountain on light feet, almost unrecognizable. Kun smiles as he sees Yangyang come into view. He looks different, now—his hair carries light highlights from months at sea, skin tanned from the sun. The lines running over his arms and neck glisten in the sunset, pure gold. He looks like a hero. A warrior.

Yangyang stops at the mouth of the temple. His sword is strapped to his back, a formidable weapon for a long awaited reunion. 

Kun smiles. Yangyang _will_ be a hero for this—a man who came down from death and brought an entire village to life. A man who crossed the entire sea for family. The people will sing of him as they do of champions, and how could they not? Kun has seen men made legends for less.

Mountains do not shift, but occasionally they indulge. Occasionally they soften from stone to flesh and remember what it was like to love.

“You have returned,” Kun says, sitting on the bench. Yangyang steps one sandaled foot over the threshold and exhales slowly, as if the air is unfamiliar to him.

Yangyang unsheathes his sword, pulling it from between his shoulder blades. His eyes blaze like wildfires as he approaches. Freckles dot his nose and cheeks. For a moment, Kun does not recognize the ferocity in his eyes—it's strange. The staunch recklessness of youth seems to have been stripped from his narrow face. 

Kun looks at him for a long moment, the entire mountain waiting with bated breath, the entire mountain watching with stony eyes.

Then Yangyang smiles and there it is—the light in his eyes goes from fire wild to sunlight warm, his face transforming as he walks forward. He drives his sword into the soil, leaving it behind as he steps onto dais.

Kun extends his hand. There is a familiar pull in his chest, something long dead and cave deep, the longing of a heart to be reunited with its other half.

“Yes,” Yangyang breathes. He takes Kun’s hand and kisses the golden eye drawn into his skin, grinning. Kun feels a pang of deep adoration for this reckless human, all his, his only champion in an eternity. 

Mountains do not love. This is a lie.

Yangyang kneels and his eyes flutter shut as Kun rests a hand on his cheek, voice breathless when he speaks. “I’m home.”  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [twt!](https://twitter.com/nastaeyong)


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